


Strengths and Needs

by justanothersong



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Reader-Insert, Science, Technobabble, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 05:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8150090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: They’ve tried to help you. Your speed and endurance is about average, and with superhumans trying to teach you, you end up sore and annoyed more often than not. They seem to forget sometimes that you are average; and attempting to train with the Avengers is kicking your ass.





	

You’re weak.

You have no superhuman strength, no regenerative abilities or special mutant powers. You’re no combat expert and your aim with a weapon is passable but not great. 

You’re weak, and you hate it.

 

They’ve tried to help you. Your speed and endurance is about average, and with superhumans trying to teach you, you end up sore and annoyed more often than not. They seem to forget sometimes that you are average; you weren’t trained from childhood or pumped full of super-serum, you have no mutant genes in your DNA and you can’t harness any god-like powers. You’re just you: plain, simple, normal, boring. 

And attempting to train with the Avengers is kicking your ass.

 

You’re not entirely clear how it happened, but three days ago, Natasha somehow managed to completely rip off your right thumbnail. She apologized profusely when she saw the blood and you decided to keep your nails clipped short after that.

A week prior, Steve took a quick step forward to block your feeble attempts at a blow and stepped on your extended foot. Three of your toes were broken and a fourth had a cracked nail; Steve had been horrified and insisted on carrying you to the infirmary himself which, while probably on the daydream wishlist of half the world over, was just completely embarrassing for you.

And seven weeks ago, Bucky had dislocated your shoulder. He had been so apologetic -- “Oh hell, doll, I’m so sorry” -- that you’d done your best to pretend that it wasn’t all that bad. That one had hurt like a bitch -- worse popping it back into place than it had been knocking it out, as it happened -- and you’d only just gotten rid of the sling when Steve had stomped your foot.

Even days when you escaped training without any obvious injury, you were bruised and sore; you’d wake up the morning after with limbs stiff as a board, trying to hobble your way into a hot shower for some relief.

You don’t think you’re built for this kind of thing.

You didn’t really understand why they wanted you, either. You weren’t like them -- you were certainly no superhero. They could dress you up in as much gear as they wanted and train you til you pass out, you were still a klutz likely to trip over your own feet.

 

The one thing you could do was fix machinery; you had come to Stark Industries with a masters in mechanical engineering and worked on a few low-level projects when you just happened to be in the same clean-room as Tony Stark himself, and heard him speaking in a low voice to Dr. Banner about some sort of short in a cybernetic prosthetic that was making it impossible for its user to feel appropriate sensation.

Elbow-deep in the gears of what was meant to eventually become a land-mine sweeper with onboard detection and diffusion capabilities, you had glanced up and commented mildly that Tony might consider replacing the current electrode system with some transverse intrafascicular multi-channel electrodes, as were being used among Italian researchers working on a similar prosthesis project.

Tony and Bruce had stared at you a long moment until you frowned and asked, “What? Don’t you read the Ingegneria Biomedica translations?”

It seemed the next thing you knew, you were being outfitted in an oddly snugly-fit tactical suit with bullet-proof plating in some critical spots, working with a prosthetic attached to none other than the Winter Soldier himself, and being thrown into quinjets and set on missions for the exclusive purpose of fixing anything that broke or fizzled out at an inconvenient time.

They started calling you Gadget, and the name stuck; they considered you one of the team, and you had no idea why.

 

Exhausted and considering turning in your resignation for the third time already that week, you shuffled your way to your room, picking at the tape on your knuckles. Bucky had wanted to teach you to box, at least to get the basics of it down; the punching bag had felt like sandpaper each time your fists connected, barely making it sway. You were sweaty and your shoulders ached, and you felt no joy in having been told that you were improving.

He had probably been lying anyway, trying to make you feel a little better about your failures. All you were amounting to was a liability, and you wondered not for the first time how you had ever thought you could do this.

You pushed open the door to your room and groaned at the pull of muscle in your shoulder, throwing your gym bag onto the bed without looking, surprised at the sudden “oof” that echoed as it hit.

Tony had wanted to set you up in a full suite of rooms like he had many of the others when you moved into the Tower full time, but you had refused. You didn’t need that much space anyway, and were happy with a little pocket of your own, space for a bed and a desk, and a bathroom you didn’t have to share. 

You hadn’t particularly expected to find Clint stretched out on your bed when you walked in the door.

“Hey, watch where you throw things!” he called out, shifting your bag to the floor from where it had landed on his legs.

You turned to him and arched a quizzical eyebrow. “Why are you on my bed?” you asked. 

Clint snorted. “‘So good to see you back, Clint’,” he replied, crossing his arms behind his head and staring at you plaintively from your pillows. “‘How was the mission, Clint?’. ‘Glad you’re back in one piece, Clint’. ‘Hey, Clint, you didn’t die, awesome!’.”

You rolled your eyes and perched on the edge of your bed, beside where he lay. “You know I’m always happy to see you alive and well,” you told him, nudging his thigh with your elbow. “I just didn’t count on coming in and finding you there.”

This was something else you couldn’t fathom, how Clint Barton seemed to have attached himself to you. Not that you were complaining, it was flattering as all get-out, and you’d be lying to say that your mind hadn’t gone there just about the moment you met him.

But he was the real deal -- a super-hero. He’d helped save the world, on more than one occasion. And you were a glorified gadget-tech who shouldn’t even be allowed in the same room as someone of his calibre.

It didn’t help that he was gorgeous on top of it. 

The man’s arms were works of art and his ass, that you’d seen only through a few layers of cotton and denim, shaped up to be magnificent.

And you were a tech nerd who’d been given way too much access to the people who kept the world a little safer.

“I always come to you,” Clint replied with a shrug, small smile still playing over his features. “When I get back, get cleaned up… barring any trips to medical, I always come to you first.”

You glanced at him in surprise; you hadn’t known that. A brief sensation of excitement sweeps through you, knowing that it was something special, what he had told you, but it just as soon became tamped down with fatigue and the heavy weight of worthlessness.

You sighed and flopped back on the bed, narrowly missing Clint’s legs in the process.

“I can’t imagine why,” you told him with a sigh.

Clint frowned and you felt yourself suddenly scooped up into his arms, pulled back so that you were cradled against his chest as he settled his back against the headboard. 

“Now why would you say something like that?” he asked, brow creased in concern.

You groaned and covered your face with your hands. “I’m useless, Clint,” you told him. “I can’t fight, I can’t even defend myself. I’m weak. I don’t belong here.”

“Don’t say that…” he started and you shook your head, moving to stand up. He locked his arm around your waist and pulled you back, tilting you by the chin to face them. “Don’t say that, Gadge,” he told you, the shortened version of your nickname something only he called you. “You’re important to the team. I need… we need you.”

You snorted. “Why?” you replied. “Tony has all the same tech skills that I do. I’m just a liability in the field.”

“No, you’re not,” Clint told you firmly. “Who got Nat out of that digital bear-trap bullshit last month? And who got Sam flying again in five minutes after he took a bad hit over Montreal? It was you. We need you. You keep us going.”

“Tony could have done any of that,” you pointed out. “And Natasha would have made easy work of the trap if she could have reached the touchpad.”

“Except she couldn’t reach it,” Clint replied. “And Tony was a mile away and two miles into the sky when Sam took that hit. We’re a team, Gadget. We work together. You’re as important here as any one of us.”

You were glad that he was sitting behind you and couldn’t see the way your cheeks burned from his praise; it was bad enough, harboring feelings for the expert marksman, but even worse if he ever realized.

“I’m not strong like the rest of you,” you grumbled. “I’m a liability.”

Clint’s arms slipped from around your waist and you felt him moving behind you; before you could turn to look or ask, one arm wrapped back around you and took your hand in his own, while the other dropped something into your palm. 

The hearing aids were tiny, soft purple silicone wound around an electronic core. Tony had designed them, and you had helped create the suspension pieces, two even tinier magnetic implants in Clint’s ear canals. The aids slipped in and were held in place, barely visible, leaving all but those already in the know any the wiser.

Clint’s strong calloused hand closed your fingers over the implants and then drew up to speak, using the sign language he had been teaching you bit by bit.

 _We all have our strengths_ , he reminded you. _And our weaknesses_.

You smiled weakly, his words having soothed some of your worry, and relaxed back against his chest. The gentle press of his lips below your ear was a surprise, but not an unwelcome one, and you closed your eyes, melting against him.

“You have more strength than you realize. You share a lot of it with the rest of us,” Clint said resolutely, just against your ear. His voice was pitched low, the tone he always used when he couldn’t hear himself speak.

You swiveled in his grasp, gently reaching to place the hearing aids back into his ears. You weren’t so well versed in sign language that you could respond in kind, and needed him to hear you.

“Why are you so good to me?” you asked, voice leaning on incredulous. 

Clint smiled. “Already told you, Gadge,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I need you.”

This time, you saw the kiss coming, and responded in a language you both could understand.


End file.
